


Pape Str.

by lady_of_clunn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Based on True Events, F/M, Gang Rape, Humiliation, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:53:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_of_clunn/pseuds/lady_of_clunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Weasleys are paying the price for standing up for their beliefs after Voldemort has taken over the wizarding world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pape Str.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter; I do not earn money by writing this story.
> 
> This story is a recollection of actual events that happened to my grandfather and his parents. He was 18 years old at the time. I want to stress that I did not at all think up these events, they came from the merciless minds of actual people and were inflicted on actual people. Many did not make it through alive. I wrote this story in order to deal with this part of family history, and I implore you not to read if you feel unwell or depressed. I also strongly believe in “don’t like, don’t read”. 
> 
> A huge thank you to dynonugget for the excellent beta! I know, it was not easy.

There was only the faint clinking noise of heavy doors being opened and closed; sometimes they heard something that sounded like snippets of conversations or barked commands.

They did not talk. Although they were separated from their captors by thick stone walls, none of them, as if by unspoken agreement, dared to voice their fears of what was to come. Only much later did they come to know that many had been silenced with charms.

Ginny burrowed into the side of her mother, trying to draw and give some comfort in the crowded yet cold room. Some of the younger women were crying softly.

When they had first been thrown into the large cell, having been separated from the men, they had rushed to the small, high windows, not believing that they actually looked out onto a public street. Not as busy as Diagon Alley, but maybe one of the side streets.

The other women had watched in motionless, resigned silence as Molly had tried to get attention from the passers-by. But a silencing charm had been placed over the windows. The one woman who had actually noticed their frantic hammering against the thick glass had looked at them wide eyed for a split second, bringing tham an agonizing flare of hope before she swiftly turned away and hurried on, never looking back.

Molly Weasley had no idea how long they had been sitting against the wall, huddled in the mounds of straw that served as mattress, blanket and pillow for the women in the room. She drew her daughter near. Ginny appeared to be one of the youngest in the room and from the bruised and broken look of many of the women, Molly equally feared and tried to avoid the thought of the door opening for them, for whatever lay beyond promised to be worse than simply being locked up in a damp cellar.

 

***

 

A layer of cold, sickly sweat covered Ron’s entire body. As soon as his mother and sister had been ripped from his father’s embrace, the guards had told them that they would receive a proper introduction.

They were not allowed shoes or shirts. Half naked and already freezing to the core, they were standing in a long line on the cold stone floor, an icy draft wafting around them.

The Death Eater guard had walked the line, the ever present thick riding crop idly brushing over the captive’s shoulders, chests and arms.

“You look like you need a bit of exercise, Blood Traitors.”

The masked man pointed to a narrow staircase, on which several guards yielding crops and clubs stood a few steps apart. The clubs glistened in the faint light, embedded shards of glass and metal reflecting the shine of the sconces.

“You will run up the stairs and back down like the good little dogs that you are.”

He turned to Arthur Weasley, pushing his chin up with the crop.

“Or would that be ‘weasles’?” The guard smiled mockingly. “Don’t stumble, you might hurt yourself,” he said almost politely.

With their hands bound behind their back they began running up and down the stairs, carefully avoiding the guards and the other captives running in the opposite direction. It was not until the fourth round that an elderly wizard tripped over a step, because he could not lift his feet high enough anymore. Not being able to brace himself with his hands, his chest and head connected to the steps with a sickening sound.

The running stopped and for a second only the laboured breathing of the captives could be heard, before the guard nearest to the grey haired man on the stairs started yelling at him to get up, punctuating his words with vicious blows of his crop.

After minutes of beatings, the old wizard finally managed to scramble to his feet and the running started again. The other guards took the incident as the sign that the real fun had begun. Occasionally, a guard would strike a naked back or chest or stick out his foot to ‘accidentally’ make one of the running wizards trip.

The elderly wizard who had fallen first had become one of their favourite victims. Near the end of their ordeal, red welts were marking Ron’s body, but he had not yet fallen to the floor and was determined not to let it happen. The fragile looking wizard stumbled once more. His swelling side had already taken on a black-bluish colour suggesting heavy internal bleeding beneath the bruises. This time, he landed with a crunch and did not flinch when the crop descended on him. The guard with the high voice turned him over with his foot. A thin line of light red blood trailed from the corner of the old man’s mouth down his throat and chest.

He was taken away through one of the many metal doors and the running started once more, but as if a point had been made or an objective achieved, the guards were no longer enthusiastic and soon had them walking along a dark corridor past many doors of heavy steel.

A middle aged wizard stood in a corner. He sagged a bit and swooned. The guard next to him shouted “Up!” and hit him with a spell that made him go rigid in pain and turn his haggard face deathly pale.

Finally one of the doors was opened and they were herded into an already crowded room. It was cold and there was an icy draft hitting their damp skin, making them shiver. Although the air was cold, it was far from fresh. Stale body odour and the thick smell of vomit and feces made it hard to breathe in.

“Ron.”

His father was there, by his side.

“Ron, take some straw and rub your skin dry. Try to get some straw under your feet as well.”

Arthur started rubbing his son’s back with the coarse stalks. He tried to avoid the tender red stripes, but as they criss-crossed his upper body closely, Ron kept crying out in pain.

“Dad, why are we here? What do they want from us?”

Arthur stopped rubbing his son’s back and let his gaze wander over the prisoners in the crowded cell.

“Ron, do you know who all of those wizards are?”

Ron looked around but could not see a familiar face. He shook his head mutely.

“These are wizards of influence, many of them pillars of their communities, role models from families who have promoted the light, have been able to gather, motivate and organize undecided people, people who would otherwise stay from the fight, turn their eyes away, hide and isolate themselves in fear.”

Arthur looked at his son gravely.

“And that is what they want. They want the people in the street to turn away in fear when they see a helpless person hexed or beaten. They want them to have no means of communication. They want them to be afraid to speak their mind, lest they disappear just like us.”

Arthur resumed rubbing his son’s back, giving him the little warmth he could produce.

Many others had simply fallen to the floor and passed out into an exhausted sleep, exposing themselves to the cold current of air that constantly passed through the room.

 

***

 

The days passed and nobody had asked a single question. Sometimes they were left alone, wondering when the door would open and what it would hold for them. Sometimes they would spend the day ‘exercising’ relentlessly until yet another frail wizard would be carried from the steep staircase, never to return to the large cell.

New prisoners would come, others would be taken away, their bodies stiff after they had ceased breathing some time during the night, giving in to the darkness that would envelope them gently and painlessly.

The skin of Ron’s chest and back was enflamed, crusty with scabs and oozing pus. Every move hurt. They were constantly cold and had not received anything to eat since they had first set foot into the cellar. Ron could already feel that he had lost a considerable amount of weight. He lay on his side, as this was the place on his body with the least injuries, and tried to doze and block out the soft sounds of his numerous cellmates.

The door opened, and for the first time, the cloaked figure in the door did not wear the Death Eater mask. Rudolphus Lestrange stood, smiling when his eyes fell on Ron.

“Time to exercise, Weasley-boy.”

A guard hoisted Ron up and pushed him out of the door. At the very moment, another door down the hall opened, and he could see his mother being dragged in the opposite direction, her eyes big and fearful at his battered sight.

Lestrange led the way around a corner. Loud sobbing, interrupted by primal cries of anguish grew louder and louder. The wizard, who had been standing in the very spot three days earlier had no control over the sounds that broke free from his throat. His feet and ankles were swollen grotesquely. The stench of urine coming from his soiled trousers and the puddle around his feet was literally breathtaking.

The wizard next to him was sitting on a comfortable armchair, a clipboard with several slightly curled parchments attached to it resting on an armrest.

“Now, now, Mr. Mandel. I am a scientist just like you. So you should understand and be proud to help me conduct my little experiment. If I let you sit down now, it will have been all for naught.”

The wizard wailed and tried to ease the discomfort in his legs by shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then Ron had been pushed into a room and the shutting of the door cut off any sound from the outside.

A rickety chair stood next to a small table, a shaving kit placed on its edge. Ron was pushed onto the chair with a rough shove and the guard immediately started chopping away his shaggy red hair that he had let grow out since his fifteenth birthday and now reached just past his shoulders.

When lock after lock had fallen to the ground, the guard took the gleaming razor and started shaving his head, avoiding a small area at the crown of his skull. A thin green ribbon was produced by the guard and tied around the pony tail that was now his only hair left.

Lestrange strode towards Ron and leaned in, his mouth near Ron’s ear.

“Do you actually know anything about the Order of the Pheonix, Weasley-Boy?”

Ron shook his head. He was not even lying. Not yet inducted, the adults had carefully kept any sensitive information from him.

“Too bad. But that should not keep us from having fun.”

Lestrange turned to the guard.

“Don’t you think he looks just like the Emperor of China?” Lestrange asked the guard earnestly, who just as earnestly replied that, indeed, sir, Ron looked just like the Emperor of China.

Lestrange vanished the shaving kit and levitated the table to the centre of the room. With a fluid movement he apparated on top of it and produced a small object from his pocket. Enlarging it with a flick of his wand, it turned out to be a long bullwhip, the leather tongue shiny and darkened from use.

Ron stood frozen to the spot when he heard a loud crack and felt the searing pain across his back a second later.

“Time to run, little Weasley, time to run.”

Ron started jogging around the table, trying to monitor the movements of the man on top of it out of the corner of his eyes.

Lestrange stood, his feet apart at shoulder width, idly playing with the whip in his hands.

“So, tell me again, who are you?”

Ron looked at him in confusion.

“I am Ronald Weasley.”

Three strikes hit him in rapid succession and Ron cried out in agony. The bullwhip took healthy skin away and reopened partially healed wounds.

Lestrange turned to the smirking guard with an expression of puzzlement.

“It looks like somebody has not been paying attention.”

Turning back to Ron, he struck him again.

“Who said you could stop running?”

As soon as Ron had resumed his slow circling around the table, Lestrange asked again.

“Now, Boy, who are you?”

“The … the Emperor of China?”

“Oh, has someone gotten too big for his boots, or what? I am afraid we will have to get that out of your system, blood traitor.”

The whip curled around Ron’s neck leaving behind a bright red ring.

 

***

 

Minutes after her mother had been taken away, the door opened again and a tall man moved inside, the women parting in front of him like the Red Sea, giving him a wide berth. Crouching down, he wrapped his glove-encased hand around her neck and lifted her head.

“You have grown to be quite pretty, Miss Weasley, haven’t you?”

Ginny wanted to withdraw from the man who had thrown her into Tom Riddle’s clutches when she was not more than a child, but the wall behind her and his strong hold on her prevented any substantial movement.

He took her hand and pulled her up to stand. More than anything else, the gentleness of his touch when he led her out of the women’s cell and through the long hallways, unsettled and instilled a leaden fear in her.

Guards stopped and leered at her openly. By the time Lucius Malfoy pushed her into a dimly lit office, Ginny was shaking. She stood in the middle of the comfortably furnished room while Malfoy leaned against a wide wooden desk, taking off his gloves.

“Come here, Ginevra.”

Her breathing was shallow and quick when she made her way over to the desk slowly.

“How old are you, Ginevra?”

“I … I just turned seventeen.”

He stroked her hair.

“Seventeen.”

Gathering all her courage she looked up at him.

“Mr. Malfoy, please …”

Before she could say anything, he very gently put a finger on her lips.

“Ssh.”

He shook his head and she started weeping, because this one, soft gesture told her that she would not be awarded mercy.

As in a dream, she saw him move a long roll of parchment, covered with names upon names in small script, many of them crossed out. After he had placed the now rolled up scroll in a drawer and locked it with a silent spell, she felt his hands on her waist, moving her over to the edge of the desk.

He lifted her onto the surface, and standing between her legs, he slowly pushed her flat onto it and covered her body with his, his cheek touching hers, his soft voice at her ear.

“Tell me, Ginny, has the Dark Lord made you a woman before you had even reached puberty, or will that be my pleasure?”

She started sobbing violently. His hand trailed down her body holding her in place with his body weight when he pushed her knickers to the side, gently drew apart the folds of her sex and pushed two fingers inside, opening her.

It hurt.

“How very lovely, Ginevra. I will enjoy this very much.”

Suddenly he was gone from on top of her and she was pulled to her feet, only to be pressed to the desk once more, this time bent over it. Malfoy muttered a spell and her hands drew together at her back and were lifted up, as if bound by a rope attached to the ceiling beam above her.

She could no longer move her upper body and her shoulders started aching instantly.

The next moment she felt the snake-headed walking stick wedging her feet apart, which were then bound to the feet of the desk.

A door opened and closed and she heard the surprised gasp of whomever had entered the room.

There was some rustling and something that sounded like the clanking of chains.

Lucius Malfoy took the sides of her head between his hands, lifted her head and moved her face to the other side, turning her towards the figure chained to a sturdy chair not far from the desk, yet unreachable.

“I believe you haven’t seen your father in a while, Ginevra.”

She sobbed.

“Papa.”

He looked so old, so tired and grey, so far from the curious, distracted, happy family father she knew.

A tear slid down his cheek.

“My Ginny. My little Ginny.”

“Your daughter is beautiful. Who would have thought that the Weasleys would be capable of producing such a fine young lady? She is strong minded as well. My son has told me all about her aptitude for hexes.”

Malfoy let his hand slide from her shoulder along her arm to her bound hands.

“But physically, she is quite fragile, isn’t she?”

A tremor moved through her as he caressed her fingers lightly.

“Bones like a little bird,” he mused. “One might be afraid to break her.”

Arthur felt his blood run cold. Every drop of it cried out urgently to protect his child. Bound as he was, he would have to watch her suffer and there was nothing, nothing he could do.

Malfoy reached for the hem of her robes and gathered the skirt at her waist. Quickly he vanished her knickers and caressed the round cheeks of her arse. Crouching down he breathed in her scent deeply.

“No! Don’t touch her, Malfoy, she is just a child.”

“Oh, I beg to differ, Arthur, she is seventeen and it is quite clear she is supporting the resistance, I would say. Some would even say she is a criminal.”

Malfoy opened his robes and started to unbuckle his belt.

Arthur strained against the chains that bound him to the chair, throwing his entire weight against them.

“Lucius, please, she is my youngest. Do as you wish with me, but please don’t hurt her.”

His voice sounded so desperate and broken.

“Hurt her?” The eyebrows of the blond Death Eater were drawn up in astonishment. “Nothing would be further from my wishes. It is all in your hands, Arthur.”

He spread her labia and she whimpered at his touch, her muscles tensing.

“All in your hands.”

Arthur’s eyes never left his daughter’s, trying to give her strength as she cried out at the ripping sensation of Malfoy’s cock thrust into her unprepared sex.

He felt so foreign and impossibly large inside of her, she was sure he would do her permanent damage. Her body reflexively clamped her muscles, attempted to close herself from the unwanted invasion. Groaning, he relentlessly pushed through the tightening muscle tissues. She held onto her father’s gaze trying to detach her mind from what was happening to her body. She could see how he desperately fought against the ever-tightening chains binding him to the chair, straining to free himself.

Finally the man behind her was still and withdrew from her a few seconds later. She could hear him straightening his clothes and then she felt cool fingers at the inside of her thigh.

Malfoy turned towards Arthur, showing him his daughter’s blood, slowly licking his fingers.

“She really is rather delicious, Arthur. I might have to keep her after all, when we are finished here, that is.”

Caressing her back he leaned over her.

“Or I give you to Draco for his birthday, what do you think? Do you like Draco, pet? All the girls like Draco.”

At this point the tears started to fall again, silently, pooling under the side of her face on the desk.

He sat down in his overstuffed chair, one ankle resting on the other leg’s knee, looking at Arthur with mild interest.

“We are doing this by rank,” he explained in a matter-of-fact tone. “There are 23 of us here at this moment. I will give you exactly five minutes to tell me something worthwhile before I call in the next one.”

Malfoy evenly met the horrified gaze of his prisoner.

“Why don’t we start with some secret keepers?”

“You will pay for this Lucius. I swear you will. People will come to know one day and you will pay.”

The snake headed cane landed on Ginny’s thigh with a loud slapping noise. For several seconds her mind did not register the pain, her body still in shock. Belatedly she cried out and arched her back up pulling on her bound wrists.

“I don’t know who the secret keepers are or were,” Arthur said flatly.

“And I don’t know who knows. It might even be that the secret keeper himself obliviated everyone right after placing the fidelius charm.” He spoke with conviction and a pleading tone in his voice.

“That, Arthur, is a real pity for Ginevra.”

Lucius Malfoy did not bat an eyelash, but pointed his wand at the fortified door, which opened without as much as a noise.

“Rookwood, come on in. I think I recall that you have a thing for very young ones.”

 

***

 

Malfoy was reclining in his chair, watching one of the lower guards slam into the girl, rousing her from her unconscious state, making her cry out in pain when he hit her womb and pushed her hips into the sharp edge of the desk over and over again.

“Weasley, Weasley, I would have thought you would at least make an effort to make this more bearable for your daughter. When we are all through, I might be compelled to take the next virginity and start from the top.”

Ginny screamed under a particularly heavy thrust and drifted out of consciousness again.

With his child facing endless molestation in front of his very eyes, Arthur started to plead again. He had thrashed against the chains, thrown his body from one side to the other in the futile attempt to break free and close the short distance that separated him from his daughter and her attacker. By now, the chains had cut deeply into his arms and legs, holding him in place and cutting off circulation in his limbs.

“Lucius, please, I beg you. Take my life, do as you wish, but end this for her. Oh gods, please, please.”

Lucius looked at Arthur, leaned forward so he could whisper in his ear.

“I am not interested in your life, Arthur. And it seems, neither are the gods.”

He leaned back against the comfortable cushions of his chair, looking unfazed if not slightly amused.

“Do you have anything to tell me, Arthur? Names? Locations? Plans?”

There was a mocking tone in his voice, informing the other man that he was well aware of his inability to provide any valuable information.

Silent tears were running down the bound man’s cheeks.

“Please, Lucius, the resistance is scattered, unorganized, you know that, you yourself have made sure of that. What can I tell you, if there is nothing left to tell?”

In his desperation, Arthur had resorted to shouting the last words.

The corners of Lucius Malfoy’s mouth twitched and even curled into a small, cruel smile.

The wand slid out of the silver and ebony cane with an elegant motion and opened the door once again.

“You, there, whomever you are, it is your turn.”

 

***

 

Lestrange sat down on the table and started taking off his shoes and socks.

“You know Weasley-Boy, I did something just for you that I have never done before in my entire life.”

He picked up his black socks, which were stiff and greyish from old sweat.

“I have not changed my socks for the last five days. And that was very hard for me.”

Levitating the socks over to Ron, he made himself comfortable and grinned widely.

“Now I want you to chew every inch of those socks until they are nice and soft again.”

Ron stared at the crumpled, reeking garments in front of him. His back and chest felt as if the skin had been stripped from the flesh. Now, the whip had begun making deep slashes in the raw and bleeding meat of his upper body.

He tried to breathe through his mouth as he lifted the first sock to his mouth. Chanting a mantra telling his heaving stomach to be calm and to ignore smell and taste, he slowly started chewing.

Tears were running down his cheeks with the effort not to retch. Halfway through the first sock, he started gagging and could not control it any longer. He had not eaten in several days, they had received little drinking water and even less water to wash. His stomach clenched painfully, dry heaving several times, he finally expelled bitter bile along with dirty tasting spit.

 

***

 

“You know, I’ve never been a mother,” Bellatrix Lestrange lamented while circling Molly. “I’ve never known the urgency of that instinct to fight for my cubs.”

She tapped her wand against her pursed lips.

“Tell me, Molly, what does it feel like to have your son’s life in your very hands?”

“You are a very hateful witch Bellatrix, and I pity you.”

The insane gleam in Bellatrix’ eyes made Molly want to step back and press herself against the far wall.

“You pity me? You would do better pitying your son, you fat brood mare.”

The room could have looked airy and bright with its whitewashed walls, but the mere presence of the dark witch made the colour seep out of it and leave a nondescript, empty grey in its wake.

Like a vulture, the insane witch swooped down on Molly, gripping her hair tightly in her claw-like hands. With strength no one would have thought her capable of she hauled her towards the far wall.

Standing behind her, Bellatrix embraced Molly from behind, wrapping her arms tightly around the older witch’s body.

A whispered spell made the wall ripple and shiver. When the stone settled, it had lost its substance, making it a window to the room next door.

Her son was a bloody heap on the floor in a puddle of sick, his upper body looking like something one might find in the showcase of a butcher.

Rudolphus Lestrange brought the Bullwhip down on him with a loud crack and tissues and muscles were cut so severely that the white bone shone through the blood at the bottom of the deep cut.

Ron did not even have the strength or energy to scream.

Bellatrix moved her hands down to Molly’s.

“Tell me, Molly. What would you be willing to give in return for your son’s life?”

Her thin hands danced over Molly’s arms stopping at her wrists.

“A finger, maybe?”

Molly stared at her hand, considering what it was the other witch wanted to hear.

Just when she wanted to offer whatever digit her tormentor wanted, Bellatrix spoke.

“But that would be too much of a bargain, would it not?”

Bellatrix caressed her wrist with ghosting touches.

“What is he worth, Molly?”

Molly closed her eyes when the bull whip tore at raw tissue again.

“A hand, Molly?”

Cold fingers dancing up and down her underarm.

“Still too cheap, I think.”

Her hands now ran down the length of Molly’s arm from wrist to shoulder.

“Would you give your wand arm Molly?”

Molly stiffened and did not answer instantly, too horrified by what was happening.

The whip cracked once more.

“You could make it all stop, Molly.”

Lestrange lifted the whip, shaking the kinks out with a practiced move of his hand.

“What will it be, Molly? Your arm or your son?”

Time had changed its flow as Molly turned around. She seemed to have to fight for every move, racing a futile race against the swift movements of her son’s torturer.

Without as much as a flinch, she held out her right arm towards Bellatrix.

The witch smiled a cruel smile and called over one of the guards standing next to the door.

“Why don’t you help Mrs. Weasley here try to save her son?”

The guard’s face was hidden underneath his shiny Death Eater mask and betrayed no personal reaction when he closed his strong hands over Molly’s shoulders and directed her firmly in the direction of two chairs. Pushing her to her knees, he placed her elbow on the seat of one chair, while her wrist was resting on the seat of the other.

Bellatrix had moved behind her, her wild hair brushing Molly’s shoulders.

“We have found that the Muggle way to do certain things is so much more exciting.”

Molly had turned around to the other witch and never saw the guard lifting his foot. The pain did not come instantly. When he brought down his foot with force and broke the bone of her underarm with a sickening crack, she whipped around her head to see the flesh and skin broken by white splinters.

The pain took her breath away and Molly simply fell to her side, cradling her arm. Only when she was in an embryonic position on the floor and the shock slowly left her body, she could not help but wail her anguish into the bare room.

Bellatrix looked down on her, studying her.

“That was very … educational. Thank you, Molly.”

The injured woman on the floor slowly crept towards the still translucent wall and managed to come to her feet, using the solid stones around the shimmering window as leverage.

Lestrange had walked over to Ron and was now nudging him with his foot. Ron did not react, so Lestrange backed away a few paces and lifted his hand with the whip.

“You said you would stop this!” Molly cried out.

“Now did I?”

Bellatrix’ eyebrows rose over surprised wide eyes.

“Did I really say these exact words? I think not.”

“Why don’t you get comfortable, Molly. We shall see just how long he will be able to hold on to what is left of his little life.”

Reacting on pure instinct, Molly whipped around and launched herself at the other witch. Mid-step, much too late, she realized that she had given Bellatrix what she wanted.

A reason?

An excuse?

A bit more excitement?

The raw terror of a mother seeing her child being destroyed.

Molly never felt the hard floor when her lifeless body hit the ground with a thud.

 

***

 

In the waning light of the sun, Arthur carefully cradled one of his children in his arms, whispering soothing words to his son. At least he could comfort him.

After hours of fruitless interrogation, Lucius had called the guard to remove Arthur from his office.

Ginny had stayed bound to the desk, her eyes dull and empty, blood and seed running down her legs. A long time ago, she had stopped showing signs of recognition whenever Arthur had managed to make eye contact with her.

Upon his return to the cell, he had found his son on the brink of death. He longed for a wand to ease his pain and heal the deep wounds, but all he could do was hold on and occasionally dip his finger into the warped enamelled cup and bring a few precious drops of water to Ron’s lips.

Soon the door started opening, a prisoner would be hauled out of the room and the door closed again, only to be reopened for the next man to disappear.

When the time came for Arthur to leave, he gently laid his son’s head on a small mound of straw and pressed his lips to his temple.

“I love you,” he softly whispered before following the guards out of the cell, his head held high.

 

***

 

Ron was securely held upright by the brutal strength of two of the faceless guards, those two of the bulkier variety. He recognized the wizard in front of him as the one in the hallway, taking notes while sitting next to a sobbing wizard with ankles swollen to the size of small balls.

The wizard looked at Ron, then back at his clip board.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes. Another Weasley, Pureblood, part of an exceedingly large family, yet blood traitors. I wonder whether that has anything to do with each other… “

For a few moments, the wizard fell silent while checking notes and consulting different parchments on his makeshift desk.

“Mr. Weasley, you must understand that all we do here is for the Greater Good of the entire wizarding community. There seems to be something genetically wrong with parts of our community, threatening the health of the wizarding world at large.”

Ron stared at him blankly.

“You understand, that we cannot allow that to happen, don’t you?”

It was very hard to stand, even when the guards were actually doing most of the work by holding him up.

“You understand that we cannot allow to pass on the sickness of such impurity of mind?”

Another guard moved in Ron’s line of vision and, to his horror, started to open his last remaining garment, pushing his trousers and boxers down to his knees.

“Unfortunately, magical means have proven … not permanent enough.”

The wizard stood and motioned to another guard carrying a tray of large, old fashioned glass syringes.

“Too many counter-curses, potions, rituals to rectify what we so carefully applied. Sometimes, those filthy Muggles do prove to be useful. On a very base and distasteful level, of course.”

A rough hand grasped his cock and a long needle was shoved inside of him. The loopy metal lever of the syringe was pushed down and a burning sensation spread through Ron’s abdomen. The syringe was held in place and the burning descended into his cramping thighs and moved up towards his ribcage. The inquisitive face of the wizard in front of him grew fuzzy and finally faded into nothingness.

 

***

 

When the door opened another time and a figure in billowing robes strode in, Ginny could no longer feel her legs. It was as if she had been paralyzed from the waist down.

Her former teacher’s gaze lingered no longer than a few moments on her.

“Lucius, we are moving the prison to the new location earlier than anticipated. Obviously, some of your less than stellar guards were a bit sloppy with the silencing charms. The local businesses complained. The sounds of torture are not going down well with the clients.”

“Who cares about some lowly merchants?”

“The Dark Lord does not want any ‘bad press’ early on in his reign. Winning hearts and minds and such. Or maybe simply letting people close their eyes from things they conveniently don’t want to see.”

“Are you insinuating the Dark Lord is not pleasant?”

Snape looked at his long time friend.

“Are you insinuating he is?”

Lucius snorted.

“Very well.” He stood and went over to the broken girl on his desk.

A wave of his wand released her legs, her arms fell down on her back with a thud, yet she was unable to move.

Lucius Malfoy crouched down in front of her.

“We are going home, pet. Would you like that?”

He helped her stand up and she cried out at the pain the movement caused, so he picked her up and gathered her close.

“Avery,” he called out. “We are changing our schedule. Move the prisoners to the new camp now, no delays.”

Turning around to the dark wizard, Lucius Malfoy smiled.

“Severus, will you oversee the transport of the remaining inmates?”

He looked down on the girl in his arms.

“I have to deal with my own prisoner.”

Severus Snape sneered at Ginny, who was pleading with her eyes, mouthing the word ‘help’ in one last, desperate attempt to reach her former professor.

“Of course Lucius, tell Draco not to again break his new toy the same day he got it, will you?”

With that he turned around and strode from the room. Ginevra Weasley disappeared from the world with a soft pop of apparition.

 

***

 

“Up, up, up!”

The prisoners were huddled on the floor, no longer caring or feeling whether they had the relative softness of straw or bare stone under their battered bodies.

Snape stalked into the room and cast a quick immobility charm on Ron. Dumbfounded, Ron lay next to the dead body of his father, who had held him close until the acid had eaten through the last barrier of tissue and started attacking his inner organs without opposition.

Guards moved through the cell quickly, casting charms and forcing the pain-stricken men to their feet.

Many remained behind.

When all the surviving prisoners had exited at the hands of the guards, Snape paced through the room, as if to check that all living men were gone. He bent down next to where Ron was laying on the straw covered ground, cooling bodies all around him. A wordless spell made sure the urgent whisper would not be heard by the guards outside.

“Hide under the straw, Mr. Weasley.” Snape pressed a small object into his hand. It felt like a metal button, polished smoothly by years and years of usage.

“This portkey will activate in exactly fourty-five minutes. It will take you to the resistance. Do not move until then, even if the spell wears off. I have to be far away when they finally realize that you are missing.”

He did not give him time to ask a single question, but exited from the cell swiftly, shutting the door behind him with his wand.

The loud, final clank of the closing door echoed in the room that had now become a crypt.

 

***

 

Slowly, Ron stepped into his childhood home that held so many happy memories. While he could not remember a single second in which the home had not been crowded and overflowing with family and friends, friendly chatter and privacy-invading never ceasing noise, he now stepped into an eerily soundless Burrow.

Not looking up, he closed the door behind him, and slowly but steadily went to the battered and often-patched sofa. The colourful crocheted blanket that his mother had made when Bill was still a baby was in its usual place, slightly rumpled, a small heap at the far end of the couch.

With great effort, Ron picked it up and wrapped it around his suddenly cold body, deeply inhaling the scent of his family. For a long time, he stared at the cracked floorboards, the hard wood polished and shiny from thousands of steps taken by sock clad feet since the construction of this room, the heart of the Burrow.

Outside it was already dark, when he finally had the courage to raise his gaze to the tall grandfather clock.

There were only two hands remaining, making the clock look oddly Muggle.

Not even Romania had proven to be a secure refuge.

Ron inhaled heavily, he carefully collected the fallen hands into a handkerchief and placed them in a soft pouch. After a long moment, he pressed his fingertips against his lips and then touched them to the hand of the clock pointing to mortal peril.

The coded snippets of information about Ginny at Malfoy Manor, sent to the resistance whenever Snape managed to catch a glimpse of her, had pulled Ron through, had made him find the willpower to stay alive and let his body heal. One day, one day he would find a way to get her out of there. Just don’t give up on me until then, little one.

After closing the door behind him, actually locking the front door of the empty Burrow for the first time in his life, he secured the large key on a string that he could wear around his neck.

With determined steps he walked towards the hill, where Remus and Tonks were waiting for him with a portkey.

He did not look back.


End file.
